"REGARDLESS OF THE RISK"
THE two chums berthed in separate cabins. On account of Desmond's
weak lungs he was compelled by the company's rules to sleep in a
part of the ship set apart for persons suffering from pulmonary
complaints.
Consequently Colin had to have another cabin-mate, since every
available berth had been booked weeks before the _Huldebras_ was due
to sail.
When Colin went below to see to his cabin trunk, he found his future
"opposite number" engaged upon the same errand--a tall,
heavily-built bearded man of about forty years of age.
"Don't apologise," said the man. "You have as much right here as I
have. We're cabin-mates, are we not? What is your name?"
Colin told him.
"Mine's Van der Wyck," volunteered the other. "Heard that name
before?"
"It's Dutch, isn't it?" asked Colin.
The bearded man laughed, displaying a double row of large white
teeth.
"Was once," he replied. "I'm an Afrikander; do you know what that
is? Well, a Boer, if you like! See that?"
He turned up his coat-sleeve, revealing a bluish mark on his bronzed
skin.
"That's a bullet wound," he continued. "I got that twenty years ago
at Paardeberg, fighting against the British. See that?"
Van der Wyck lifted one leg, and, pulling up the trouser-leg a few
inches, revealed the fact that he wore an artificial foot.
"Got that in 1916 fighting for the British in German East Africa,"
he explained proudly. "Bit of a scrap close to a place called
Kilembonga. Don't suppose you've ever heard of the place."
"I have," declared Colin. "That's where I'm going."
"_Allemachtag!_" exclaimed the Afrikander. "I hope you will enjoy
the place better than I did. But, then, Fritz with a rifle is no
longer there. What are you going to Kilembonga for--ivory? There
are plenty of elephants, and lions, too."
"No, mining," replied Colin, "or, rather, mining engineering."
Van der Wyck looked at his youthful cabin-companion with a quizzical
air.
"You would do better in the Witwatersrand," he observed, and without
offering any explanation, he busied himself with the contents of his
trunk.
For the next three days Colin kept to his bunk. His high hopes of
becoming a good sailor were rudely dashed, not exactly to the
ground, but somewhere else of a less solid nature. In nautical
parlance, he was "mustering his bag," or, in plain language, he was
horribly seasick.
All the way down Channel and across the Bay the _Huldebras_ was
followed by a strong nor'-easterly wind, that made the ship roll far
worse than if she had encountered a head wind.
Colin had some slight satisfaction in the knowledge that he was not
the only passenger out of action with _mal-de-mer_. The steward, who
brought and took away twelve untasted meals, informed him that only
half-a-dozen of the second-class were up and about.
On the morning of the fourth day Colin dressed and went on deck. He
still felt far from well, but he was able to eat breakfast. There
was no sign of Tiny Desmond, and it was not until late that
afternoon that that very woe-begone-looking youth staggered out of
his cabin.
But before the _Huldebras_ sighted Las Palmas Colin had recovered
his normal spirits, while Desmond looked better than he had done for
weeks past. The rest of the passengers, too, were finding their
sea-legs, and taking an interest in deck games.
In spite of the difference of ages, the two chums got on splendidly
with Van der Wyck. Apart from the fact that he knew the district to
which they were bound, he was a "thundering good sort." He retained
the quiet, unassuming manner of a veldt farmer, combined with the
experience gained by travelling in other portions of the Empire to
which he was proud to belong.
Like many of his veldt friends and neighbours, he had been an ardent
supporter of President Kruger, but the generous concessions accorded
the conquered Boers had speedily been vindicated. Except for a
minority, the Afrikanders were genuinely loyal to the British
Government.
"There is a very remarkable tribe living in the district around
Kilembonga," remarked Van der Wyck one evening, as the Afrikander
and the two chums were standing on a secluded portion of the
promenade deck, watching the sun set. The _Huldebras_ was now
approaching the Tropics, steaming at seventeen knots through a
perfectly calm sea. From below came the strains of the ship's band
discoursing the music of the latest London comedy.
"Savages?" queried Tiny.
"Yes," replied Van der Wyck. "Savages with qualities that a good
many white men lack. The Makoh'lenga, as they call themselves, are
big fellows--the average height is six feet two--of a mixed stock.
Report has it that a Zulu impi, which had incurred the wrath of King
Dingaan, fled northwards more than eighty years ago and 'ate up'
almost every tribe they encountered until they struck the Arab races
inhabiting the region between Lakes Tanganyika and Victoria Nyanza.
Apparently Arab and Zulu blood fused, and the Makoh'lengas were the
result.
"Then the Huns got possession of the territory lately known as
German East, but they were unable to exercise any authority over the
Makoh'lengas. Even the Askaris--the German native levies--failed to
subdue them; and, as you probably may know, the Askaris under Hun
officers made admirable soldiers.
"Several expeditions into the Makoh'lenga territory resulted in
disaster, till at length the Askaris, also influenced by
superstitious fears, point blank refused to fight the
powerfully-built natives. So the German sub-Governor, von Spreewald,
ordered a cordon to be placed round the Makoh'lenga country and
tried to starve the tribe into submission."
"And did he succeed?" asked Colin.
"He succeeded in making a rod for his own back," replied Van der
Wyck. "The Makoh'lengas are self-supporting. They grow enough maize
and rear enough cattle to be independent of outsiders for food. So
the blockade failed, but von Spreewald by his action created a
menace to the German rule in East Africa. When the War broke out the
Makoh'lengas were actively pro-British. Yet as far as I know only
one white man ever set foot in the Secret City of Makoh'lenga."
"Did you ever meet him?" asked Desmond.
"Yes," replied Van der Wyck, as he deliberately filled his large
Boer pipe. "And so did you."
"I did!" exclaimed Tiny.
"Yes, a fellow called Piet Van der Wyck," replied the owner of that
name gravely.
"By Jove!" ejaculated Colin excitedly. "And what was the place like?
How did you manage to get there?"
"Sort of accident," explained Van der Wyck. "You know what a
swastika is? Well, years ago, when I was about eighteen or nineteen,
I went with a friend, Cornelius Hoog, to Jo'burg for a holiday.
Amongst other irresponsible things we did we went to a tattooist's,
and the man tattooed a swastika on my arm. Here it is as plain as
the day it was done. In '16 I was with Deventer's column operating
in the region of Tabora. There I happened to do what you English
call a 'good turn' to an induna, or chief. It was quite a trivial
thing as far as I was concerned, and at the time I thought nothing
of it.
"As a matter of fact, I didn't know the fellow was an induna. Three
days later I was out on patrol and we got into a nasty corner--six
of us cut off by a couple of hundred Askaris. They got me just as I
was getting into my saddle--a soft-nosed bullet through the ankle.
What happened after that I have no recollection. None of my comrades
returned. Their bodies were found the next day. Read this."
Van der Wyck produced a pocket-book filled with folded papers, many
of them torn and faded. Holding the pocket-book in the rays of an
electric lamp, for darkness had now fallen over the surface of the
tranquil sea, he drew out a scrap of newspaper. On it was printed
the names of five men killed in action; below were the words:
"Missing, believed killed: P. v. d. Wyck."
"When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in a kloof. I
suppose I had somehow got into the saddle, and my horse had got
through and galloped miles. To this day I do not know how I
contrived to get away. But I was in a bad state--my ankle pulverised
and my horse gone.
"There I lay for three days and three nights, tormented by the sun
by day and scared by prowling animals by night. Several times I lost
consciousness, and once an assvogal--you'd call it a vulture--sat on
my chest and began pecking at my eyes.
"At last I was found by a party of Makoh'lengas. One of them was the
induna I had befriended. They were going to carry me back to the
laager. If they had I should have doubtless died on the way, for our
detachment had moved eighty miles to the south-east.
"Then the induna--Umkomasi was his name--noticed the swastika
tattooed on my arm. That was a sort of passport, for the Makoh'lenga
have a very similar symbol that is supposed to possess magical
properties. In my case it qualified me for admission into the Secret
City of Makoh'lenga. I was there eleven weeks. They couldn't save my
foot; but they prevented me from having bloodpoisoning and pulled me
through a bout of black-water fever. You see, I can speak Zulu, and
the Makoh'lenga tongue is a sort of Zulu dialect."
"And what sort of place is Makoh'lenga?" asked Tiny.
Van der Wyck was on the point of answering the question when he
leant against the rail and stretched his leg to full length.
"Sort of cramp in my artificial foot," he explained apologetically.
"You may think that's an absurd thing to say, but it's a fact.
Sometimes I feel sensations just as if my foot were still there.
Once, I remember----"
A rending of wood, a stifled exclamation, and a warning shout from
Tiny Desmond, and then a heavy splash. A portion of the rail had
given way under the pressure of the Afrikander's bulk. Unable to
recover his balance, Van der Wyck had fallen overboard.
Colin knew that the man was unable to swim. He rushed to the side
and looked down to the phosphorescent water, then with Tiny's shout
of "Man overboard!" ringing in his ears, Colin hurled a lifebuoy
over, and, regardless of the consequences, almost immediately took a
header into the sea.
The _Huldebras_ was doing between sixteen and seventeen knots, which
meant that she was forging through the water at the rate of nine
yards a second. Consequently Sinclair was hurled obliquely against
the surface with terrific force.
Well-nigh winded and swallowing a liberal quantity of the Atlantic,
he came to the surface without any rational idea of how he had got
"in the ditch." He realised that he was overboard, and that the
_Huldebras_ seemed miles away. The blaze of light from her scuttles
and portholes was receding rapidly. Something floating on the
adjacent water in the ship's wake a good fifty yards away and
clearly visible in the starlight attracted his attention. It was the
white-painted lifebuoy he had hurled overboard.
Instinct prompted him to strike out for it, and as he swam
laboriously--for his limbs, owing to the force with which he had
struck the water, seemed almost devoid of action--his reasoning
powers began to resume their normal functions.
He remembered Van der Wyck falling overboard. Where was he? To Colin
it seemed as if hours had elapsed since he dived, although actually
less than a couple of minutes had passed.
Swimming stolidly, Sinclair gained the lifebuoy. It was with a sense
of thankfulness that he gripped the rounded, canvas-painted surface.
He even suffered the rebuff of a sharp blow on the head as the
lifebuoy dipped and capsized under the one-sided weight of the
swimmer. Then with more caution, Colin rested one hand lightly on
the buoy, and looked for the unfortunate Van der Wyck.
He knew in which direction to look. The Afrikander, if he still
remained afloat, must be somewhere in the phosphorescent trail known
as the ship's wake.
His quick eyes detected something floating about a hundred yards
away, a round black object rising and falling in the undulations
caused by the 16,000 tons steamer cutting through the sea at full
speed.
Colin, pushing the buoy before him, swam towards the spot where he
imagined Van der Wyck to be floating. Before he had covered half the
distance he knew that his surmise was correct. It was his
cabin-mate.
"Hold up!" he shouted, his voice sounding painfully feeble in the
solitude of the night. "I'm coming to you."
Nearer and nearer Colin swam, pushing the buoy in front of him. Van
der Wyck was floating perfectly motionless with his arms behind his
head. Although he was unable to swim, he possessed sufficient
confidence to lie on his back, keep his arms well submerged, and
breathe regularly and deeply.
Nevertheless, he was unfeignedly glad to be able to grasp the buoy,
but his surprise was unrestrained when he recognised Colin Sinclair.
"How on earth----" he began, then, struck by the absurdity of the
question, he added: "Did you fall overboard too?"
"Sort of," replied Colin. "Luckily the sea's warm. Wonder how long
they'll take to pick us up. Hello, where's the ship now?"
There was no reply from his companion.
Colin repeated the question, conscious for the first time of their
joint peril. The _Huldebras_ was no longer in sight.